


Timothée Chalamet/ Armie Hammer

by canned_peaches



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: CMBYN - Freeform, Call me by your name, Fanon, M/M, non Canon, non-canon, slow burn?, their ages aren’t very accurate, timothée is in college
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-07 00:27:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17355494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canned_peaches/pseuds/canned_peaches
Summary: Timothée Chalamet got kicked out by his mom, and spent the past few months nearly penniless on the streets trying to juggle paying for college, a job, schoolwork, and earning enough money for somewhere to live. He moved in with Armie Hammer and they were roommates, both trying to succeed in the acting business. I guess that’s mostly the premise of the story. I intend for it to be ongoing, maybe 30k words at least? I won’t achieve that anytime soon but that’s my goal.





	1. Preface/Summary

Hi! I’m new to AO3, so make sure to tell me later on in the comments what you think of my writing. I’ve written fan fiction before, but not for Call Me By Your Name, so let me know how it was. In this story, Timothée is a college student. His mom kicked him out and refused to pay for his college, so he has to juggle paying for it, homework, his job, and trying to get money so he can live in a house and not on the streets. He moves in with Armie Hammer for a roommate, a somewhat mysterious, charismatic, cocky man who is also pursuing acting. Romance then blooms, vòila! Yeah, that’s the premise of this story. This is just the preface/summary, and if I haven’t posted a chapter 1, I will shortly. Keep reading! Thanks :)


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy and Armie meet!

     I clutched my small firetruck-red duffel bag as I walked up to my new house. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach the moment I saw it again. It was not about moving into the house that I was nervous—it was cozy enough; nice, though not too fancy; small, yet seemed spacious—but about my roommate. We had briefly met prior to my moving in, when he was conversing with people to decide who he wanted to be his roommate, and the only thing I remembered about him was how tall and confident and _intense_ looking he was. Sure, he was nice, cool—maybe, if I got to know him better, sweet—but since then I had had a ball of dread and anxiety in my stomach, weighing me down. We had only chatted for a few minutes, then he had to leave to go somewhere, but it filled me with nervousness nonetheless, all leading up to this moment. I went up the walkway and knocked on the door four times, a little more timid and quietly than I had wanted or anticipated, and almost immediately he swung open the door.   
  


   “Hello?” His piercing blue eyes ran up and down my body, trying to figure out who I was, observing me. I had to almost crane my neck and look up to see his face, he was so _tall_. His hair, his beautiful, light caramel colored hair framed his face well, making him look like one of those statues of Roman or Greek gods with bare chests that have chitons loosely draped over their waist.   
  


   “ _Bonjour, uh, je m-m’appele Timothée, um, Timothée Chalamet. Vous sont Armie_?” He looked at me wide eyed, completely baffled for some unknown reason. Only when I saw his confused expression did I realize I was speaking French. I shook my head and squeezed my eyes shut in embarrassment and self pity, then forced myself to look back up at him.    
  


   “Hi, I’m, um,” I stammered and extended my hand. “Sorry. Timothée? Timothée Chalamet? I’m your new roommate.” I nearly strained my face resisting the urge to cringe at myself. I could not believe I spoke French to him. When I get nervous I speak French, it’s some sort of coping mechanism, and now I introduced myself to the person I was going to be living with for who knows how long, in another language. He must have thought I was some kind of alien.   
  


   “Oh!” He exclaimed with recognition, then smiled, which made his eyes crinkle around the edges, and he grabbed my hand to shake it, firmly. His hand wrapped around mine entirely, making it warm, cozy. I wanted my hand to stay there, in the protective cage of his hand, forever. “I’m sorry,” he apologized while rolling his eyes at himself and disconnecting our hands. “I should have remembered you. Come in, Timothée. _Mi casa es tu casa_ ,” he invited me in Spanish, and I was pretty certain we’d said more words to each other in a foreign language than we had in English. Even if he thought it weird to introduce myself to him in French, he didn’t show it. I picked up my bag, but he snatched it out of my hand effortlessly to carry it to my room with a smirk. I scowled at the back of his head. What a cocky man. I followed him, and he led me to my room, where he set my bag on the mattress. There wasn’t even a bed or a bed frame or a comforter, just a mattress on the floor in the corner with a nightstand alongside it. “Do you have more bags?” He asked, and stood without waiting for my answer. “I’ll help you get them.” He began walking towards the door.    
  


   “Wait,” I said urgently. “Um, I don’t have anymore bags.”    
  


   “This is all you have? It’s just one duffel bag.” I nodded. “You’ve been living with this little of an amount of things?”   
  


   I sat on the mattress and looked at my feet, my toes around the shaggy beige carpet. “Well, my-um, my mom kicked me out of the house so I didn’t, um, get to keep many of my things.” My voice was hardly audible, and I had to repeat myself more than a few times in order for him to fully understand what I had said. His expression was suddenly somber and respectful.   
  


   “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He looked around uncomfortably. “Here, I’ll let you unpack and I’m going to cook. Are you okay with steak? I don’t really have much else here, so it’ll have to do.” I nodded, but he was already walking out. All of a sudden the room was too quiet, it was almost unbearable. I at least needed to get up and move around. I began unpacking, taking out the few clothes that I had from my bag and hanging them up in the closet on the few mismatched hangers the person before me must have left. I set out a framed picture of the mountains in France from a summer vacation when I was eight on the small wooden nightstand beside the mattress. I charged my phone and put the tangled earbuds next to it. I stacked the three books that I had in the bottom part of the nightstand. And those—other than my small collection of toiletries in a quart sized ziploc bag—were my only possessions. That was all that was in my duffel bag. Those few, small, insignificant things; my life. I sat on the mattress in the corner, lumpy and thin, and just looked at my room, completely bare and unpersonable. I silently prayed that I would grow to like living there, and more than that, that I would grow to like Armie, or at least to endure him.   
  


   Not two minutes later there was a clatter from outside my room. I sprang up, startled, and rushed out to see what it was, but when I went around the corner of the hallway I did not see anything. There was nothing in the living room. The house was static. It couldn’t have come from Armie’s room, it was too loud and his door was closed. I ventured into the kitchen, and found such an unbelievable sight I didn’t even think it was real for a moment.   
  


   He was sprawled out on his back on the kitchen floor, rubbing his head in pain. Spread around him was an array of shattered ceramic, fallen cutting boards, green beans, carrots, corn, and two raw pieces of meat.    
  


   I carefully crept over, avoiding stepping into anything, and crouched above him. “Armie? Are you okay? What happened?” I coaxed.   
  


   He groaned and his eyes fluttered closed. “I fell.” He groaned again, a guttural sound, sighed, and looked into my eyes. “I’m so sorry. I was going to make a really good meal for you since you just got here, you know, like a housewarming type thing, but I completely ruined it.” His Head fell back onto the tiled floor with a thud.   
  


   “It’s fine.” I smiled softly.   
  


   “No it’s not. I’m sorry. I’ll take you out to eat and buy you a nice meal. You just got here, I want you to be comfor–“   
  


   “It’s okay, really. I’ll pick this up, you just go clean up and shower and I’ll have food ready when you get out.” He tried to say something but I shook my head. “Nope. You go shower, I’ll clean up in here.” He groaned once more, pushed himself up, and walked out rubbing his head as I began to clean the floor. I looked in the fridge and got out vegetables, spices, chicken broth and water, and I put a vegetable soup on the stove to cook while I finished cleaning the floor. It was nice of him to care and try to make a nice meal, but it really didn’t matter to me. I had been used to eating stale bread, unripe fruit, and soggy French fries while I was living on the streets, so anything in that moment would do.   
  


   Later, just as I finished getting everything cleaned off the floor, I heard him walk in. But when I looked up I was not expecting what I actually saw. He was unclothed except for a small crimson towel wrapped around his waist. My eyes fought terribly hard to look at his bare chest, but my mind, the logical side of me fought to look at his face and not make a fool of myself. “Hey,” he said and leaned against the counter next to me, only feet away. I thought I saw a hint of a smirk, but it could have been my imagination. Was he trying to make things difficult for me? The way his body curved, it was as if he was daring me to desire him. I ended up looking either at the floor or past him. “Do you want to go out to get something to eat? I don’t know if I should get dressed to go out or not.”   
  


   I shook my head. “I’m making soup. I’m going to stay in for the night.” He nodded and went back to his room. I sighed in relief. When he came out he was, sadly, dressed in a T-shirt and sweats. Sadly? What was getting into me? I was not attracted to my roommate I had met a mere half hour ago only for the second time. I did not want to get hurt again. “It’s ready,” I told him as he walked back in the kitchen, and let him get his food first.    
  


   We sat down at the table pushed against the wall beside the window and blew on the steaming soup. It was uncomfortable sitting there in silence, eating, not even knowing each other. He must have felt it too, because he said, quite loudly, “So. How are you doing Timothée?” I looked up while putting a spoonful of soup into my mouth.   
  


   “Um, good, I guess. You?”   
  


   “Good.” We looked at each other for another second, then took a bite of our scalding hot soup. Talk about awkward.    
  


   “Uh, where do you work?” I asked, my mind racing to think of more things to talk about. How is it that with people you know well there is always something to speak of, but with someone you know nothing about your mind goes blank? Shouldn’t there be more to talk about with someone of which you know nothing?   
  


   “I’m an actor. Not too famous, though I have had a few minor roles in some movies you might have heard of, but I’m climbing up there. My agent said the other day she might know of a major role I would like, though I haven’t heard anything more about it. You?”   
  


   “Well I work at Pete’s Bar, but I’m going to LaGuardia Performing Arts College studying acting, and I’ve been in quite a few plays, a minor role in Law & Order, but not any ‘real’ movies yet.” Another bite.   
  


   “Yet. I have a feeling you’d be a good actor. If you ever need any help rehearsing I’d be happy to work with you on it.” He took another heaping bite. “This soup is phenomenal, by the way. Do you like cooking?” Then, naturally, and unexpectedly, we catapulted into very casual conversation, much to my relief. I discovered he was 27, almost 28, had been in nine movies, had never been out of the country but always had wanted to go to Italy, though he spoke zero words of Italian, and had previously been a bartender, just like me. I told him about myself, too: I was 18, almost 19, I had been in 31 plays from four years old to current, was born in France and had always wanted to go to Italy as well, though I knew some Italian unlike him, and was also a bartender.    
  


   “You said your mom kicked you out?” I internally sighed. I knew this would come up. The butterflies in my stomach began to shuffle around again. I prayed he wouldn’t push me.   
  


   “I don’t want to get into the details. Maybe I’ll tell you another day, but not this one. I hate thinking about it, and talking about it is worse.” I hoped I didn’t sound snappy, but I needed to make it clear it was a touchy subject for me. I didn’t want to be bombarded by his questions and give into telling him before I was ready. We finished the soup and I cleaned up his bowl for him. I had a feeling he thought I was mad at him from my tone of voice, but I wasn’t, I just needed to be clear in what I was comfortable talking about and what I was not.    
  
....   
  
   It was dark outside, and I had a class at 7:30 in the morning to be at. I got up from the couch, where I was looking over a script and Armie was reading, and told him, “I’m going to bed. I have an early class tomorrow. Do you have a blanket and a pillow I could borrow?”   
  


   “You aren’t going to sleep on the mattress in your room, are you? That lumpy thing?” I nodded. “No, that mattress is so uncomfortable. It doesn’t even have sheets. You can sleep in my room.” I shook my head.   
  


   “Nah, it’s fine, I’ll be okay. Goodnight.” I began to walk out of the room but he started speaking again.   
  


   “Come on, my bed’s comfy. It has sheets, a warm comforter, blankets, fluffy pillows.” He smiled. It was tempting, the way he smirked. But no.   
  


   “Armie, if it will make you feel any better, I’ll sleep on the couch. But I’m not sharing your bed, and I’m certainly not taking over it. Now do you have blankets and pillows I could borrow?” The sad truth was, I wanted to share his bed, I wanted to have his warm body beside me and have an excuse to sleep with him, in the most innocent sense of the phrase, because I hadn’t known warmth and comfort in so long and it was taxing on me. But I couldn’t bring myself to muster up the courage. I was everything but courageous.    
  


  He disappeared, then brought out a myriad of blankets and pillows for me and laid them all on top of me, a heap of cotton. I sorted them out and closed my eyes, relaxing after the long, stress-inducing day. But I felt him watching me. When I looked up, he was standing a few feet away looking down peacefully at me. I raised my eyebrows as if to ask, “What? Why are you watching me?” He just said casually, with a soft smile, “You look so peaceful. I’ll turn out the lights for you. Goodnight, Timmy.” With that he ruffled my already messy hair and disappeared behind the couch. The room went black in a few more seconds.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave kudos and let me know how it was/things I can improve on in the comments. This is my first real chapter so any advice/constructive criticism/thoughts are helpful :)


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